


Sock 'n Roll

by azhdarchidaen



Series: Relativity Falls Stories [1]
Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Alternate Universe - Relativity Falls, Episode: s02e04 Sock Opera, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-04
Updated: 2016-07-04
Packaged: 2018-07-20 00:42:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7384201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/azhdarchidaen/pseuds/azhdarchidaen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grauntie Mabel has just the plan to help Stanley get that guy from the library to talk to him; Ford thinks he knows how to hack into that old laptop they found recently.</p><p>Both these things are bad ideas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sock 'n Roll

The Gravity Falls public library smelled like old books and moldy pages, and Stanley Pines was having trouble staying still in his seat.

Next to him, Ford pored over one of the books whose scent was making Stan feel slightly sleepy, the might-as-well-be-ancient laptop they’d brought with them propped open next to him. In theory, Stanley was helping. In practice, the words on the page were getting blurrier than normal and he decided to flop over the back of his chair.

He shot back up almost immediately.

“Ford!” he whispered. It was a very bad whisper.

“What?” his brother asked back, excitedly.

“Look at that guy on the other end of the library!”

“What?” Ford said again, much more subdued this time, and in fact sounding slightly annoyed.

“The one with the puppets,” Stanley said, turning around so he could lean over the chair right-side-up. “And the great hair.”

“Stanley…”” Ford sighed. He was rubbing his eyes, glasses pushed most of the way up his forehead. He looked frustrated.

“Hey, listen,” Stan said. “I’m just gonna go over and talk to him, okay?”

“You _said_ you were going to help me figure out the _password_ ,” Ford said pleadingly, gesturing towards the book in front of him.

“All those words turn my brain into mush, you know that,” Stan said. “Call me over when you start punching 'em in, that I can help with.”

“I told you,” Ford said, “It could have a limited number of attempts, we have to use a methodical approach here—even if you don’t want to read up on cryptography, I can still use your help. I wanted to write up some frequency tables, and…”

“...Nerd talk, nerd talk, nerd talk. You can spare me for a few minutes, right Sixer? I’ll be back.”

“I suppose…” Ford said, settling slightly deeper into his chair as he hunched his shoulders a little. “You won’t take too long?”

“Yeah. You’ll barely even miss me!”

“Do you even know what you’re going to say to him?”

The latter comment lead to Stanley’s finger hanging in mid-air, originally raised to make a point and become stuck when the point didn’t follow.

“I’ll definitely think of… something…” he said defensively.

Before an accusation to the contrary—as was usually inevitable when either brother was doubting the other—could be launched, Stanley realized too late that he’d begun heavily leaning on the chair back. Its wheels spun out from under him and he landed in a heap on the floor.

“...Right,” Ford said, grabbing another book from the stack next to him.

Stanley popped his head back up with immediate enthusiasm. “Absolutely!”

He just had “absolutely” no idea what.

 

* * *

 

 

“You doing okay there, sweetie?”

Back at the Mystery Shack, Stanley was drawn from his thoughts by the sound of his grauntie’s voice. She’d rested a hand on the sofa he was parked on, contemplating his earlier failure to figure out how to talk to the guy at the library.

“Yeah…” he said, slowly uncurling to see her better. “Just feelin’ a little like I missed a shot.”

Grauntie Mabel raised an eyebrow. “What kind?”

“Romantic prospects,” Stanley said melodramatically as he flopped back into the chair.

“Oooh, ouch,” she replied. “Any chance you’ll get another one?”

Stan shrugged. “I dunno if he’ll be around for it.”

“Know what I’d do if I were you?” she said. Ears perking up, Stan leaned forward.

“Make one,” she said, rubbing a fist into her hand. Her fez had gone slightly askew, giving the whole gesture a slightly disconcerting effect. “What do you know about this guy?”

“Mostly that he, uh… likes puppets?” Stanley said. The minute the words escaped his mouth, Mabel’s face lit up in a grin like a neon sign—and not the broken flickery kind.

“Puppets?” she said. “You want to reel in a guy who’s into puppets? Oho, I know how to get him to talk to you.”

“You do?”

“You bet I do! You just gotta throw a puppet show. A big, flashy one, that’ll really grab his attention. We’ll put up flyers.... advertise all over town…”

“Wait, _we_?” Stanley asked suddenly.

“Of course! I accept.”

“You.. you _what_?”

“You need someone to teach you how to put on the greatest puppet show this town has ever seen, and I accept.”

“You mean you’ll help me?” he said, eyes lighting up.

“We’re gonna give this guy the works, okay? I’m picturing lights… music… glitter… Let me go get my art things.”

“Yeah!” Stanley said punching the air as she headed into the kitchen. Suddenly he was getting into this.

“Yeah?” came a voice from the side of the room, and he looked over to see Ford standing in the other doorway, the laptop tucked under his right arm and his left hand on his hip, six fingers tapping.

“That’s what you said to _me_ , too!” he said.

“Ford… I… can totally help you when I’m all done with this. Just like I said.”

“This isn’t ‘a few minutes’ anymore!” he said, angrily. “Do you even _care?_ ”

“I… I do care, this is just… pressing!”

“ _This_ is pressing!” Ford said, waving the laptop in front of him.

“Look, Ford,” Stan said, putting a hand on Ford’s shoulder. His brother went to swat it away but Stanley kept talking, “I absolutely 100% promise that after Grauntie Mabel and I pull off the _greatest puppet show in history_ I will help you discover the secrets of that computer, but until then—hey! Couldn’t you get Fidds to help you? He’s into your nerd stuff.”

Ford sighed. “Fidds got in trouble after that whole bunker trip, his dad noticed that he looked all battered and said he didn’t want him fooling around with ‘all that adventure stuff’ anymore. I kinda hoped he’d forget about it but… he still won’t help me. I asked.”

“Well then my absolutely 100% guarantee is still solid,” Stanley said cheerfully. “I just… gotta make some puppets first. It’s a promise.”

“No refunds?” Ford asked him, sounding hopeful, if a bit skeptically.

“No refunds! I got your back, bro.”

And he meant it. Just… after the puppets.

 

* * *

 

Ford dragged himself into the kitchen, rubbing his eyes as he attempted not to let loose a wide yawn. Between getting roped into helping Stanley and Great-Aunt Mabel with their giant puppet show scheme and staying up into the early morning every day so far this week trying to delve further and further into cryptography techniques that could help him hack into the laptop, his current lack of sleep was—though he’d never admit it—really starting to get to him.

“Woah, looks like someone needs a cup of Mabel Juice!” his great-aunt said after taking a single look at him. She started to reach for a pitcher on the table in front of her.

“...Mabel Juice?” he asked blearily.

“Don’t drink it, bro,” Stanley warned him from his own seat at the table, a stack of pancakes in front of him. “I think she put glitter in it. And not the stuff you’re supposed to eat.”

“Pssh, just because you couldn’t stomach it,” Great-Aunt Mabel replied, punching Stanley lightly on the shoulder. “We needed that pep for the final push today and you know it.”

Stanley just shuddered slightly. “It’s like coffee and nightmares had a baby.”

Ford assumed there was more banter between the two of them to come, but instead Great-Aunt Mabel’s face softened slightly as the yawn he’d been trying to withhold finally escaped.

“Seriously though,” she asked, “are you okay, hon?”

“I’m fine,” Ford snapped once his mouth had shut, somewhat more testily than intended. A tiny, stubborn part of him was starting to think he didn’t _want_ everyone else’s help anymore, and while it wasn’t fully grown yet, it was volatile.

“Whatever you say, then,” she said, but Ford caught the concerned glance she’d exchanged with Stanley as his brother just shrugged.

“We gotta go hang up some flyers to advertise for the show today, do you think you can help?” Stanley eventually asked.

 _“Do you think you can help?”_ an annoyed little voice in Ford’s brain mimicked, thinking about how many times he’d asked that question himself before deciding to give up on it for the time being.

….Well, maybe not completely.

“If we get your posters up will you be able to help me with those frequency charts, like I asked?” he asked Stanley.

“Totally!” his brother replied. “Everything’s all ready to go, once we advertise it I can help you out until it’s time for the show. Whaddaya say?”

 _If I help them put up their posters, it’ll probably go faster than if I didn’t,_ Ford thought to himself, taking into account both the simple mathematical division of work to be done and his family’s tendency to get distracted.

“...Yeah, I’ll help,” Ford said. “How many posters are we hanging up?”

Great-Aunt Mabel pointed across the kitchen to a stack of glitter-encrusted paper almost as tall as the twins themselves sitting on the floor. Each one read “JAILHOUSE SOCK:  A ROCK-AND-ROLL PUPPET DRAMADY”

Ford groaned a little.

_Oh boy._

 

* * *

 

 

“Oh, are you advertising for a local puppeteer?”

Stanley jumped at the voice behind him, turning around to see none other than the boy from the library that started off this whole puppet show business.

“Um…” he stammered, dropping the poster he was carrying. It always took him a little while to slip into confident mode, and he’d been caught off-guard. Fortunately there was a decent segue he could use. “Actually, the puppeteer is _me._ ”

“Oh really?” the other boy said, smiling wildly. “How excellent to meet a fellow craftsman, then. Is your show soon?”

“It’s… uh… it’s later today. We’re just doing some last-minute advertising, you know?”

“Last-minute?” the boy said sounding disapproving. Stanley found himself back-tracking. Darn surprise confrontation. He was supposed to be talking to this guy _after_ he’d dazzled him with his incredible sock puppet show.

“Well it’s not like, you know, last-minute really. The production isn’t, I mean. We’ve got too much to have done in just... a week or something, definitely—an original score, pyrotechnics…”

“Really?” the other boy said excitedly.

“Yeah, we just _really_ wanted to make sure people knew about it. Really really wanted to. For reasons.”

“Well, if it’s anything like you say, I’d be ecstatic to see another true puppetry aficionado at work!”

Stan’s heart skipped a beat, and it wasn’t just because he didn’t know what two of the words in that sentence meant and at this point had unfamiliar-vocabulary-dodging reflexes built in thanks to school.

“You really mean it?”

“I mean, if it’s as true an example of the _craft_ as you say… Tell me, do you use single or cross stitch for your puppets?”

Stanley was about to stammer a confused answer to that and hope it was the right one (50/50 shot, right?) when he was spared by the puppet boy cutting himself off.

“No no no, don’t tell me. I’ll come. I’d like to see for myself. I look forward to meeting again…” he paused, reading the poster “...Stanley Pines.”

“Ha, same,” Stan said, although realized just moments later that he’d actually done it aloud. Whoops. Fortunately the possible embarrassment was averted by the other boy seeming to vanish into the shadows, like the beautiful enigma he was. Stan wasn’t sure what happened, but one thing was clear to him.

“We have to improve all the puppets,” he said frantically as Ford rounded the corner to join him. What he didn’t realize at first was that at the same time Ford had just said “And that’s the last of them!”

“Wait, what?” he continued, attempting to dust his hands of glitter without getting any more on his beloved jacket. “Stanley, you said once we finished with the posters you’d help me!”

“The stakes just got raised, man!” Stan protested. “They’re all the way up here, now!”

To illustrate, Stan stood on his tiptoes and held his arm as high above his head as was possible. Realistically, it wasn’t an accurate portrayal of the stakes. If he wanted to accurately get them across to Ford, he oughta stand on a rock or something.

“But… but what about _my_ stakes!” Ford said angrily. “I’ve been putting the laptop on hold all week for you, you haven’t even been helping… what about those?”

“Look, we’ll be back in business after today, Sixer” Stan said, knowing it was totally true. He hated leaving Ford hanging like this, but couldn’t he understand that this _had_ to happen today? He’d been hanging up flyers with the date literally painted on them for the last hour, he really _should._

“You know what?” Ford said, voice still rising. “Fine! I don’t need you! I don’t need anyone!”

“Stanford…”

“You and Great-Aunt Mabel can work on puppets all you want, _I’ll_ be working on the laptop back at the Shack if you need me.”

As his brother stormed away, Stan was really put off by the fact that he couldn’t even tell which of his current sinking feelings was actually doing the most sinking.

 

* * *

 

“Password… password… password………” Ford muttered to himself, sitting in the bedroom a week later. He should have known his great-aunt and brother would turn this into a _production_ . They kept insisting it was necessary. Being completely honest, he couldn’t understand why his twin was trying to impress this guy in the first place. And now here he was all alone but… but that was okay. He could crack this on his own, right? If they weren’t going to help, he could make this work _himself._

“Password… password…. Stanley…. is…. Useless….”

Well, sure, he wasn’t sleeping so much, and he still felt pretty bad for yelling at his brother like that but… well...

He was so wrapped up in his thoughts, both of the problems at hand and the laptop causing it, that Ford didn’t notice as he started to drift off.

It was only when a familiar glowing figure materialized in the window area and the world around him went grey that he was aware the room had grown significantly… weirder.

“Hiya, smart guy!”

Ford jumped back, shouting the name of the demon in question. “Bill!”

“Yeah, yeah, we had our introduction. Although I don’t think we exactly got off on the best _foot_ …” he said, extending one of his own in Ford’s direction as if for a handshake.

“You were trying to steal the code to the Shack!” Ford accused him. “Of course we didn’t!”

“See, Sixer—can I call you Sixer?—that’s what I’m talking about. I think you misunderstood the arrangement. I don’t actually have anything against your _family_ _—_ that whole annoying business was just what I got called up to _do_.”

“…Called up?”

“Oh come on, you’re a smart kid! Good brain in your head _and_ you love this kind of stuff. What do you know about spirits and things?”

“You mean it was just because you got... summoned?” Ford said, trying to read between the lines of what Bill was saying. He couldn’t mean… Was he saying…?

“There you go! Oh, I knew I liked you. You’re _quick._ ”

Ford blushed a little. “Well…”

“Anyways, here’s the deal kid. Since I wasn’t able to finish _that_ job, I’m kinda stuck here. Got summoned into your place…. can’t go home.”

“Home?”

“Oh yeah, good old home dimension! I mean, it can get as boring as anybody’s home, but at least I don’t stick out like a sore thumb there. Here it’s a different story–you try to manifest in front of someone and they run away screaming. That’s why I thought I’d come to _you.”_

“To me?”

“You ask a lot of questions, huh? That’s good, I like that. Keeps you sharp, and we triangles know all about sharp. Yeah, I need someone else to send me back home. You got the brains to do it, already know what I look like, and also… if it’s not out of line for me to comment on…. seemed like you might be the most… sympathetic.”

Ford looked down at his hands. “With sticking out like a sore thumb?”

“It’s not _my_ place to pry,” Bill said. “Since, you know, smart kid like you doesn’t _deserve_ to feel that way, if anybody’s been _making_ you…”

“–What do you need to get back home?” Ford asked him.

“Oh, not much at all! Just another deal. I complete my end of a deal, my link to this world gets severed. Trouble is most people want me to pull off more than I can chew. Say… _you_ wouldn’t consider a little tiny one, would you? Something small? Need help solving any puzzles or something? Not that I think you _can’t_ yourself, but I got access to an awful lot of knowledge here…”

“Well,” Ford hesitated. If he could solve the laptop problem by himself; if he could show Stanley that hey, so maybe he hadn’t had help but he was _better_ than that now… that’d be something. Something big. He hid behind his brother enough already. The main reason anyone ever left him alone was out of a fear of Stanley’s fists, not Ford’s… Fordness.

Maybe he _did_ see himself and his brother as too much of a package deal… maybe Just Ford could figure something out, and prove he wasn’t just someone's punching bag or in need of rescue for once...

He took a deep breath.

“There is _one_ thing…” he said, “a password…”

“Say no more!” Bill said. “I can get you that _super_ quick!”

“What’s the catch?”

“Catch? You’re the one helping _me_ out here, buddy. All you gotta do is give me a _little_ something in return. That’s what makes it a deal. I noticed you got an awful lot of these sock things lying around at the moment…”

“The puppets, you mean?”

“Yeah! That’s substantial enough to make it work! All I need is a puppet!”

“I don’t know I mean… Stanley and Great-Aunt Mabel have been putting a lot of work into those…”

“Both of them? Instead of helping you? Man, people here really _don’t_ treat you so great…”

“It’s fine,” he said. “I can count that as the ‘help’ my brother promised anyways. One puppet –and a ticket home – in exchange for the laptop password?”

“I knew you were a smart one,” Bill said, extending his hand to him. “Deal?”

“Deal!”

Suddenly the room was spinning, and Ford felt weirdly ripped from his body. He looked down, only to realize he was floating in midair.

“…Bill?” he said nervously, looking around for him. Something must have gone wrong, something didn’t…

He noticed his actual body, on the ground, open its eyes. They were glinting yellow.

“Hahahahaha!” Bill voice laughed from his mouth. “Oh man, you bought it! Incredible! By the way, Sixer, ‘gullible’ is written on the ceiling.

Before Ford could react, Bill was smashing the laptop on the ground.

“But… our deal…”

“ _You’re_ my puppet!” Bill said. “And boy was it easy. Anybody else would’ve seen through that in a heartbeat, but all you needed were some compliments and a sob story. And people say you’re the brains of your family…”

“I… I am!” Ford stammered, except when he tried to put his foot down for emphasis it just sent him careening through the air.

“You keep telling yourself that, but it’s just ‘cause you want to be something other than ‘the freak’ isn’t it?”

“What happened to ‘sticking out like a sore thumb’?” Ford said quietly. Bill just laughed.

“Oh I’ve embraced that. Some of us are better at that than you, you know. Now if you’ll excuse me, I gotta make like the dumb weirdo that made this deal and _fall down the stairs_.”

Ford couldn’t even make himself wince properly as Bill sent his body careening down the steps to the attic, he was still reeling over everything he’d said. All his earlier logic had vanished in an instant—he wasn’t proving himself, he just went and ended up on the receiving end of taunts and dishonesty and needing to be rescued _again._

“Come back!” he said frantically, trying to get the hang of floating down the stairs.

When he finally found the demon—and his body—downstairs, Bill was slamming his arm into a drawer.

“Stop that!” he said, panicked.

“Whew! You’re nice and durable, at least,” Bill said. “I haven’t had this much fun in years! Although the eyes lead something to be desired. Your bad two really count about the same as my one. Unless we go with ‘four-eyes’!”

“Please, just… stop hurting my arm!” Ford said.

“What, you’d rather me go for the leg?” Bill said. “That’d be another way to get some _kicks._ ”

As he spoke, he slammed one leg into the cupboard. Ford winced, even though he couldn’t feel it, the sinking feeling in his incorporeal stomach suddenly making him almost ill. He’d been trying to get by as “fine” and “not needing help” and all of it was disappearing in an awful mistake and a bunch of kitchen injuries. He’d just snapped at Great-Aunt Mabel this morning for checking up on him, what was going to happen if he _actually_ needed help?

Maybe not needing anyone—or at least, trying not to—wasn’t such a good strategy after all.

 

* * *

 

Stan wiped his forehead. Somehow, despite his lack of puppeteering knowledge less than a week ago, the show was proceeding without a hitch. Grauntie Mabel knew how to pull these things off. And, now that he thought about it, maybe he _did_ have a talent for winging it… maybe if Act II went just as flawlessly, he could really have something here.

 _“Stanley!”_ came a shout from somewhere backstage. It sounded like… Ford? What was he doing back here, he had a cue coming up!

After their argument, Stan had been really surprised when his brother didn’t object to using the journal as a last-minute prop (much better than the cardboard book he’d thrown together himself…) and even volunteered to be a part of the show.

He took a nervous step backwards when he realized the sound was actually coming out of a sock puppet.

“Ahhhh! I didn’t mean to bring you to life!” he yelled, punching it. There was a frustrated cry.

_“Stanley, it’s me, Ford!”_

“Nice try! Ford isn’t a puppet!”

“ _No, but I’m the one holding it!”_

“No one’s holding…” he said, about to object when suddenly the sock compressed like someone was sticking their fingers in-between the parts where there weren’t other fingers inside it. Sure enough, when they were all done, six distinct peaks stood out.

“…seriously?”

_“Yes!”_

“Why are you invisible?”

_“It was Bill Cipher, okay? Bill… stole… my body from me, he’s controlling it now and I’m stuck floating around in the mindscape!”_

“Bill… you mean that overgrown triangle? And the what-scape?”

_“Yes! You’ve got to help me get my body back!”_

“How do I know he won’t just steal mine then?” Stanley questioned, raising an eyebrow.

 _“Because he… he… fine, he didn’t steal it… he… he…_ tricked _me…”_

Stanley’s face softened. Ford didn’t usually admit he was wrong about something. That must mean…

“I’m gonna beat that asshole out of your body, Pointdexter.”

_“Stanley!”_

“Hey, I can use that word if I want to!”

 _“No, no, not that–if you beat him up you’ll beat_ me _up!”_

“This is complicated,” Stanley sighed, wishing it was as simple as going after Ford’s playground bullies. Those he could just punch. Sometimes he got punched _back_ , but you know.

_“Just… try to get him out without hurting me, okay? Any more than he already has?”_

“How am I supposed to do that? And… intermission ends in like 20 seconds, you want me to do it during the show? It’ll be ruined!”

 _“Stan! He’s after the journal! He already broke the laptop, if he gets that, we’ll lose all the progress I-all the progress_ we’ve _made all summer!”_

Stan thought of all the times during the week he’d told Ford he couldn’t help—thought about their argument, and Ford getting really upset. Maybe he’d been trying to do something good but… well, leaving Ford to his own devices never ended well. He didn’t like to think he had an _obligation_ to always help his brother... to end up in the shadows yet again… he didn’t, he was going to tell himself he didn’t… but, well… clearly he needed help now.

The other thoughts would be dealt with… sometime else. Probably.

“This is really important to you, huh Poindexter?” he asked.

There was a silence on the other end, which Stan knew was as good as he was going to get to a “yes” from his twin.

“Alright, I’ll see what I can do. Maybe… you could get Grauntie Mabel to take over?”

_“I can’t let her see me like this!”_

He sighed.

 

* * *

 

Stan raced across the catwalk, looking around wildly for the figure of his brother. Long shadows cast by stage-lighting and creaky old floor sounds gave the entire space an atmosphere he _really_ didn’t need right now.

It wasn’t until he was shoved into a prop from behind that he realized where Ford was.

Well… Bill Cipher. Bill Ci-Ford? Something like that.

“Give it up kid,” came the accompanying voice to the form now looming over him on the catwalk, “you’ve already lost. Or at least, your brother has. Just hand over the journal and _your_ precious show doesn’t have to be a trainwreck.”

“N-no, Ford wants this. I won’t let you take it away!”

“Honestly? After he put you in this position? You’re willing to let this whole thing go to waste because your brother got in over his head?”

Stanley looked down at the book in his hands a little sadly.

Bill seemed to pick up on the emotion, egging him on. “That’s it… who would be willing to give up everything they’d worked for just for their dumb sibling?”

But Stan had made his choice back in the dressing room, knowing full well this wasn’t the first time—nor unfortunately likely, the last—he’d find himself doing something like this for his brother.

There were some things, it seemed, he’d always feel like doing.

“ _I_ would, you stupid triangle!” Stanley yelled back at him. “And you oughta know that. It looks like you don’t know how to play by New Jersey playground rules.”

“New… Jersey…?”

“Anybody that picks on Ford gets served a knuckle sandwich!” Stanley said, swinging at him angrily. He remembered slightly too late that he wasn’t supposed to do that—hopefully Ford would forgive him for one… well… that might be a black eye.

It worked though, his opponent had to straighten out trying to dodge and fell backwards, giving him enough time to clamber on the catwalk and down the stairs.

“You want the nerd book? Come and get it!”

With that, Bill was up too, and chasing after him. Stanley felt the oncoming tackle about halfway down.

“You know you can’t stop me _and_ save your show,” Bill said angrily, grappling with him as they tumbled, “Looks like you’re stuck between a sock and a hard place!”

“I don’t care,” Stanley said through gritted teeth.

It was about then that he proved this point, the two of them falling onto the stage.

“You fool!” Bill yelled. “You know you can’t stop me! I'm a being of pure energy with no weaknesses!”

“I dunno about that,” Stanley panted, as he gained the upper hand, pinning Bill to the floor. “You’re in Ford’s body, and we’ve had boxing matches together—he ain’t so good at some of this stuff.”

Bill’s eyes widened, as he struggled and realized he couldn’t get up.

“No!” he yelled. “No! No!”

Stanley gave him a good shove, sending Bill into a pile of relatively harmless cardboard boxes offstage, and giving himself a chance to scoop up the journal, which had been dropped in their struggling on the stairs.

“Give me that!” Bill snapped, as soon as he’d righted himself. But the action alone seemed to have exhausted him extra, and Stanley was reminded of just how tired his brother looked that morning.

“...that and I’m pretty sure you haven’t sleep more than a few hours this week,” he said. “Taking care of himself is another thing Ford ain’t so good at either.”

This guess seemed to be proving right, seeing as Bill was stumbling wildly around the stage. Sure enough, it wasn’t long before his form collapsed into a heap on the floor, muttering something about a “stupid impossible flesh vessel”.

It was when the muttering transferred into a nearby sock puppet that Stan got _really_ concerned.

_“_ _This isn't the last you'll hear of me! Big things are coming! You can't stop me!”_

He took a deep breath. The performance was trashed already...

Time for the big finish.

 

* * *

 

Ford groaned as he noticed flaming wreckage around them. He’d only just come to, even if it was gratefully in his own body, and Stanley had set something on fire?

But it didn’t take long for him to also notice his brother, who was standing over him protectively, making sure none of it hit the two of them as it rained down on the stage.

His back was to him, and it gave Ford a tiny idea.

Even though he ached all over (What had Bill done to his _body?_ ) he pulled himself up slowly and wrapped his arms around Stanley’s shoulders. His twin jumped slightly at the action, but turned his head to the side and gave a little grin when he noticed Ford looked like he was back.

He returned the smile, and Stanley squeezed one of his hands.

“You okay?”

Ford gave a laugh—it was all he could do, given he was so clearly not.“Well, everything hurts, but…”

But Stan appeared to have been joking in the same manner because he apologetically continued.

“One of those, uh, mighta been on me.”

“I can’t even complain, can I?”

“Hey, I tried okay!”

“You tried just fine,” Ford said, taking off his glasses to clean them on his shirt. There was a prominent crack in one of the lenses now. Probably from getting punched in the face.

“Really though, you okay?” he asked.

“We already discussed–”

“–No I mean like… _okay_ okay.”

Ford was silent.

“I dunno he just… that creep reminded me too much of back home, you know? If it was like that… if you wanna talk…”

Ford shrugged. “I’m used to it.” And being honest, after his panicked realization in the attic, part of him wondered if he really was—and how exactly he felt about that.

“That’s not ‘okay’ Ford…”

Their conversation was interrupted by Great-Aunt Mabel’s appearance on the stage.

“That was a creative finish, Stanley.” she said.

“You didn’t hate it?”

“I’m not one to criticize, although I think I noticed… someone… on their way out.”

Next to him, Stanley sighed.

“Hey, if it wasn’t gonna work because of artistic differences… For what it’s worth, you still put on a hell of a show.”

Ford’s brother beamed at her, and probably would have continued to he she not suddenly taken a good look at Ford himself.

“Holy plastic dinosaurs!” she said, “What happened, Stanford?”

Ford froze up, not knowing what to say. He’d admitted to Stanley just how foolish he’d been, but he didn’t think he could bear to tell anyone else. Bill’s taunting words still echoed through his brain

_“You keep telling yourself that, but it’s just ‘cause you want to be something other than ‘the freak’ isn’t it?”_

He still felt largely like curling in on himself for that. No, he wasn’t ready to tell her exactly what happened. Instead, he defaulted to what he probably should have said this morning.

“I’m… not fine,” he mumbled, only realizing as he did so that it was slightly tearfully.

“Well of course you’re not!” she said, “Just look at you! All I was wondering was _how_ you got yourself in this mess.”

“Can we call it a tragic accident?” Ford said. “Or is that too weird?”

She ruffled his hair affectionately. “Weird is okay. I like weird. C’mon Stan, I think we need to try to patch up Mr. Tragic Accident here.”

Ford gave her a small smile, not unlike the one he’d given Stanley earlier. He had… a lot to think about, and not all of it was so great. But for now at least, he had his family.

Maybe he _did_ need them.

And maybe that was okay.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [I'll Ease Your Mind](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8800666) by [scribefindegil](https://archiveofourown.org/users/scribefindegil/pseuds/scribefindegil)




End file.
